pink ropes, red rooms. They remind her
of childhood, squeezing the boysenberries
from her mother’s garden, the purple
staining her palms. She sees herself
thumping in silver bowls. She’s told her womb
is a liability, marred by past growths, past carvings.
She waits behind the curtain for her prize, her
creation—hears metal to skin, a gentle stitching.
She hears a baby’s cry, her chest swelling
in anticipation as they clean the redness off her.